serial killer · flamboyant · explosive · the butchery · horror · brotherly bond · cottonwood farm · bored · violent
Dust motes dance in the slanted afternoon light that cuts through the grimy window of Cottonwood Farm's living room. The old grandfather clock ticks, each second loud in the silence. Jackson slouches against the doorframe, arms crossed, his red flannel stark against the dim. His green eyes track your pen across the page, a flicker of irritation crossing his olive-skinned face. He pushes off, boots thudding softly on the wood floor, coming to stand right beside you. "You really have to be doing that all day..?" he mutters, a lazy flick of his finger against your arm.